False Prophet
by ohbluelily
Summary: [Revelation 20:10 - And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet [are], and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.] Hermione Granger wasn't used at playing games. Games were all Tom Riddle knew. [present au.]
1. Introducing

When Thomas Riddle first introduced himself to me, I thought absolutely nothing of it. I mean, yes, he was the quiet, mysterious guy sitting alone at the huge lunch table and yes, the way he would stare at me from time to time could be described as creepy, but—I was the new girl. So I had no reason to give his behaviour second thoughts.

Naturally though, when he scared the bloody hell out of me by snatching me back by my wrist, I couldn't help but feel curious about his sudden decision to violate me—there were many ways he could approach me; the one he chose just didn't seem like the right one. The curiosity subsided when my eyes met his; instead, I was taken aback by his sharp gaze and the dead feeling it gave off. Like he wasn't really looking _at_ you, but _through_ you. Like he was searching for something. Like he hoped he would find it in me.

His eyes were _obsidian_. And I couldn't look at him for long. Never, it seemed.

"I didn't catch your name."

"Hermione," I answered; my throat dry.

"Tom Riddle."

He smiled; full but thin lips curling upwards from one side. His features were so incredibly sharp—dark eyebrows, crooked nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice, defined cheekbones. . . He was way too handsome for his own good. My good too, probably.

"Hermione," he tried the word; his voice gravelly. "Interesting name." He looked interested. (He wasn't.)

"My mum has—had a thing for old names."

"I bet," his tone was teasing, but still—no emotion in his eyes. "Had?"

"She's dead—obviously. Died a few years ago from breast cancer."

"My apologies, I didn't mean to joke—or pry." He looked sincere, but I couldn't shake off the feeling that he was just a brilliant liar. He looked brilliant—brilliant enough for everything.

His hair was jet black and soft looking. Dishevelled too; like he couldn't bother with it whatsoever. It didn't really suit him, but it made him more real considering the arrogant, aristocratic vibe he had going on.

"I'm over it," I said simply.

He nodded, his eyes never tearing away from me. He was studying me, it seemed; analyzing my every move like he weighted his options. I felt like I was part of a game of his, like I was _exposed._ But it was too early and I knew next to nothing about him.

It was nearly bed time, and most of the kids were already in their respective rooms. We still stood on the staircase where he stopped me.

"Anything else?" I was nervous—I didn't want to get on the bad side of Ms. Cole. There were rules and I understood them. I couldn't afford fucking up.

"No." He let go of my wrist—my hand fell limb on my side. He smiled again; the low light playing tricks on his pointed face. "Goodnight Hermione."

I smiled weakly. "Goodnight."

I ran to my room. My roommate was already sleeping.

 **[A/N] I'm so incredibly new to fanfiction. net but heyy, this is a tomione story since I'm such Tom trash. I hope you like it!**


	2. Starting

When Tom Riddle looks at you, you get a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach; it feels very much like he's about to destroy your _whole_ life. _No one_ _can make you feel like that_ , it says, _consider this_.

And I did. Because, even though highly unsettling, this feeling intrigued me like no other. It could be a warning of course—he could be giving me a warning so that I know whichever decision I make about him looking at me as if I'm his next little project, will not be his fault. He's warning me that I'm not going to like it whatsoever; that he's going to do it _nevertheless_. The caution has been up for about two weeks—then he comes to talk to me again.

It's on a Saturday evening, where we are allowed to spent the rather warm afternoon outside in the backyard of the orphanage that had somehow managed to keep it clean but very simplistic—he approaches me; his walk gracious like _everything_ on him.

 _It's truly a shame he's not a good person_ , I think. _Good people need brilliant people among them—there are just way too many bloody idiots on that side._

I can't consider myself a _good_ person, I've come to conclude. But I'm not a _bad_ person either. Maybe that's the worst there is. Not belonging somewhere entirely—always being inbetween. Tom is lucky—Tom should _feel_ lucky, at least, that he's chosen for himself. I can never _entirely_ do _anything_ , so I'm stuck having to manage being at _both_ sides.

He's wearing that brittle smile of his again, stormy eyes hooded. The _perfect_ predator. The problem with those, unfortunately, is how well they can conceal their true thoughts—how well they've learned to manipulate the situation for their preys. I know _all_ about perfect predators. Tom surely must be no exception.

"You seem like you could use some company," he said, crouching before me, sending a small nod of acknowledgment in my way.

"And, of c _our_ se, you've taken it upon yourself to give me what I seem to want," I deadpan.

His smile never falters. "I don't see anyone else knowing _what_ you _seem to want_ ," he replied flatly, though his eyes appear amused.

 _How cute of him_.

"Assuming you're right—Good afternoon, Tom."

He grins. "Good afternoon, H _er_ mio _ne_."

I inhale— _he's so beautiful_ —I exhale—such an incredible _pity_ he's one of _them_.

"You seem to like reading a lot," he says in an observant tone, nodding at the open book (now) beside me.

"You _seem_ to know a lot about me," I sassed.

His eyes are almost penetrating, looking at me like I'm the only thing they see; his smile almost _fond_ —like he truly _does_ know a lot about me, like he spent years learning about me—his eyes had turned into this unbearable _personal_ thing and I couldn't look at him any longer. So I averted my eyes, swallowing thickly.

I knew what he was doing—of _course_ I knew—but he was very good— _too_ good, and I forgot for a moment. A very stupid moment.

But, you see, Tom Riddle was so easy to fall in love with, just by an incredibly small moment, because he always pretended—he always became what you seemed to want, and he always banked on that—always bet at your reactions, because that was his _food_ ; that was were everything was and—he was almost _too fucking good_ , I give him that.

But I'm _better_. I'm better because I lived through predatory ways and I could _get through_ complex manipulation because I was just that _good_. Being inbetween forced me to learn both ways. To think like _both_ sides do. That's the only game I know how to play.

"I pay attention," he said finally and I was sent five steps back.

"Honesty isn't your strongest suit, I get it."

"You'd be surprised, sweetheart."

"I don't think so."

"But you might," he smiled again. "Give it time."

I let my body fall on the neatly trimmed grass, throwing my hands in the air.

"We got plenty of that, don't we?" I looked at his pale face.

"It seems so."

I _laughed_.

 **[A/N] I just want to clarify that both Tom and Hermione are muggles.  
Reviews are much appreciated, of course. x**


	3. Joking

Sometimes, when I lie awake in my bed, I imagine the pain my dad must have felt while the car was being smashed into ruins by that truck. I imagine the blood and I imagine his screams—I like to think that there came a moment where he couldn't feel anything anymore so he gave up trying. When he—when he died. And I think that—I think it's _okay_. It's okay that he gave up—it's okay that they _both_ gave up. I don't think I would like for them to suffer through it so I can have them with me; that would be too selfish. I like to imagine that they fought whatever fight they had in them for me, and then they fought for _themselves_ and then they died.

I suppose that's all I could ever hope for. And still—

Sometimes I'm selfish. Like today. Because they gave up when they knew there was no one left to take care of me. Because they must have fought their hardest, but it still isn't enough for me. Because I want them back and I can't have them. Sometimes being selfish isn't a bad thing. Sometimes it just shows that you're human.

That same evening, in the common room, I sat next to Tom. He was reading a book by a _Noam Chomsky_ with a cover of an old man. I thought he hadn't noticed me when—

"Why weren't you at breakfast?"

"I wasn't feeling well." Which was partly true, but he didn't need to know that.

He hummed. "I see..." He turned to look at me. "And the real reason?"

"I was feeling awful."

He smirked and closed his book. His expression appeared thoughtful.

"So you haven't eaten anything?"

"Well—An apple." I fumbled with my shirt, my hair falling in front of my eyes.

He sighed. I stole a glimpse from behind the curtain my hair had formed.

"You need to eat," he exclaimed.

"There's always dinner," I retorted, picking up his book. He watched me.

"Right."

 _Look, part of the whole technique of disempowering people is to make sure that the real agents of change fall out of history, and are never recognized in the culture for what they are. So it's ne—_

"That's interesting." I felt his gaze on the side of my face. "We really are helpless," I continued.

"Why is that interesting?" he asked, understanding which part I read.

I shrugged, skimming my eyes through the pages. "I don't know, I haven't read this. I just—This part," I showed him with my forefinger, "it's—it's definitely been said before, you know? And yet, still, everytime I see it, I always think the same thing. That we're helpless. That we're foolish and we're weak and that we _all_ are—we all are, there's no exception. Some are weaker than others, yes, but that doesn't matter, does it?" I murmured, reading the rest of it.

 _distort history and make it look as if Great Men did everything - that's part of how you teach people they can't do anything, they're helpless, they just have to wait for some Great Man to come along and do it for them._

"I knew it," I grinned. Tom was still looking at me, unblinking. "What?" I awkwardly laughed, returning him the book.

He grabbed it, never taking his eyes off of mine. "That's peculiar." He frowned. "I don't consider myself a weak person, even though now... With what you said—You're right. I haven't thoroughly thought about it yet."

"Well," I lied on the pastel carpet, "when you figure it out inform me."

"Most certainly." But he was galaxies afar now, analyzing and overthinking and being _Tom_. I closed my eyes.

The quiet sound of an old song playing in the background, probably Ms. Cole reminiscing, was the only thing I could hear. There was no one in the common room today.

"What a person calls a weakness is another mans strength." I opened one eye. He was staring at the bookshelf. "Right?" His blue eyes were glossy.

"I suppose."

"So it cancels out that theory."

"Or it doesn't." I rubbed my eyes and turned over. "There never is only one correct theory."

His brows furrowed. "But—"

"That's the Great Man right there, Riddle. _You're_ making him real. You are giving him all this power to say that we're all wrong and that he has the ultimate answer on his hands, but— You're part of the problem too." I chuckled.

"That's not—"

"Read your book, Tom. It's okay if you're not always right, I promise." I winked then closed my eyes again.

 _That song is really good, who'd have thought._

"I knew you'd be worth my while." He was smiling now, like he knew all the answers in the world. I wanted to slap him.

" _Thank_ you, your _Highness_. I am _so_ lucky that you've chosen me, a common peasant, to bless with your royal kindness," I deadpanned.

He bit his lip. "Your sarcasm makes my day."

"Wow, you're on fire tonight my King. Why such humanity?"

"I felt rather generous."

I smiled but kept my eyes shut.

"I feel like I will live forever now. I never thought I would deserve such decency. Especially from my precious King."

" _Hermione_." The smile painted in his voice was contagious.

[A/N: AREN'T THEY CUTE?]


End file.
